I, Purifier
by AdunToridas
Summary: The Purifiers are at a crossroad. Each must choose their own destiny, their own future, and their own identity. The person they are and the biological self they left behind are each afforded a destiny. Some will follow in their own footsteps, be the self they could have left behind, while others in turn will choose a new name, a new self.
1. Talis

"Preator Talis- You have command of the adepts!"

For what felt like the thousandth time in this damnable war, Talis had once again been called to action. Her mind warped and stretched for a single uncomfortable moment as her processors adjusted to the shell she now inhabited- in addition to the dozen shells that would act as extensions of her being.

A constant flow of tactical information pierced through from her adept shells- sight, touch, sound, simulations for every conceivable move the enemy could make- all filtered and filed away as it reached her. To a biological mind it would be maddening, but the tactical data web allowed purifier constructs to compute at a rate far beyond anything else the protoss had ever produced. Talis often idly wondered, in moments where she had the spare processing power to do so, whether this was simply a byproduct of their digitized minds, or if it was an innate part of the creation process to endow her kindred with this altered mental state; the conclave certainly wouldn't have been above doing so. She suppose it didn't matter either way, it was brutally efficient and thus invaluable- particularly in dark days such as these.

Shocked out of idle thought by the detection of an encroaching threat through an observer positioned above the group, Talis and her adept shells took formation and leapt forwards. Launching a coordinated flurry of glave disks, the errant Mutalisk flock was shredded and fell to the ground in a pulpy, acidic mess. She let herself feel a moment of pride in vanquishing the disgusting interlopers that had so rudely interrupted her thoughts. It was promptly interrupted by her own bisection.

As her mind jumped to another of the shells in her squad, Talis chastised herself. She'd been lazy, distracted, and was now in a position to ruin the mission. She had immediately seen her folly, while focusing her processing power on the mutalisk flock, she hadn't seen the Broodlord tailing behind them, and it's vile parasites had hit her midsection so hard that the shell had simply split in half. Shells are expendable, and should she fail here completely her consciousness would simply be thrown back to cybros without any body to jump to- the Tal'darim forces she was protecting the flank of, however, would find death a much more permanent experience.

Left with no other option, she simply rushed toward the monstrous foe and her adepts, mindless extensions of her own body, fanned out behind her. Whatever spark of consciousness controlled the parasite-ridden zerg quickly realized her tactics, launching wave after wave of it's spawn at the charging squad and striking them down whenever it hit true. Whether it hit Talis herself or not was irrelevant, with the weak senses it possessed it couldn't tell which shell she inhabited, each shattered shell was one less threat.

Bounding over the shell that had housed her consciousness moments ago, Talis began to feel nervous. Her squad had been reduced to a trio, and their weaponry was ill equipped to pierce the armored exoskeleton of a Broodlord in the first place. An idea stirred within her- or was it a tactical simulation? It mattered little. It was a long shot, but without other recourse she diverted all the processing she had left to planning it. The math had to be perfect.

The dull senses of the Broodlord adapted to the change of tactics as quickly as could be expected. It barely perceived that one of the forms it was tracking had lagged behind, and had they not been so close it wouldn't have noticed the leading to raise their glave cannons above their heads, as if to shield themselves. Something primal and deep within the creature felt uneasy at this turn of events, but the consciousness that directed it either didn't feel the same, or didn't care. _They are WEAK. They are POWERLESS. They SUBMIT._ The beast couldn't comprehend it's words, but it understood the order. Another volley of parasites was launched, and another robotic foe fell in turn. Had it not been so focused on the enemy closer to it, perhaps it would've noticed the lagging adept pick up it's pace once again, charging right at it's compatriot.

Talis counted herself lucky that the beast was so brainless- or at least, it's master was inattentive. It didn't even seem to perceive her as there as she jumped on to the upheld glave cannon of her last remaining shell, a single shove launching her skyward. Later, thinking back, she liked to think it didn't notice her until her glave cannon was embedded into it's brain. She would also think that, perhaps, she would've liked to gloat over it's corpse. Had it not fallen from the sky and crushed her, that is.

As much as the conversation with the Tal'darim commander had been painful, explaining that his flank was now exposed but that all immediate threats had been taken care of, Talis had only half paid attention to his ranting. As she often did, and as was the upside of having a consciousness built to multitask, she let her mind wander back to herself- the biological self. Records indicated she had gone off to investigate disappearances shortly before the End War had broken out and never reported back. It was certain that she was out there, amongst the Dark God's stolen firstborn forces, and Talis often hoped to see herself on the battlefield. She had given little thought to what she would do if that happened, but she hoped it nonetheless.

As the raving ascendant closed the connection in a huff, Talis resolved to put some thought into what she'd do when her biological self finally appeared. Something would need to be done.

* * *

On the dying world of Atrias, buried beneath a pile of ancient stone, rests a slender form. It's golden cannon still embedded deeply within the skull of a crumpled abomination, a twisted perversion of the cycle that moulds reality itself.

No one will ever know of her sacrifice, her vital role in saving the future. There will be no recognition of Talis' heroism, as all those who witnessed it perished in turn. The surface of this desolate world will soon follow suit and crumble, destroying all evidence of what occured here.

But she will not be forgotten.


	2. Cipion - Part 1

Cipion is not a templar name, Nor one the Nerazim would take, and although Khashilar wasn't entirely certain, he doubted it was something the Tal'darim would use either. No, Cipion was distinctly the name of a Purifier- a mangling of Khalani words from several different dialects twisted into some kind of phrase or idiom that's meaning and symbolism were truly only understood by the being who'd chosen it as his new name. As his new future.

An interesting future indeed, Khashilar mused as his cybernetic student kneeled before him, but not one without it's struggles. There had been murmurs of disapproval amongst the older Nerazim as Khalai had been inducted into the teachings of the void- murmurs quietened by the Avenger Order's prompt vacation of shakuras in a rather foolish attempt to retake aiur on their own, and their later crucial assistance to the free Daelaam forces during the End War. Tal'darim defectors requesting to be taught the ways Nerazim similarly caused disquiet amongst the elders, those set in their ways and unhappy with the perceived attacks on their culture. Purifiers requesting tutorage, however, had caused the largest uproar- allowing those who were not _only_ symbols of the Conclave's moral bankruptcy, but those who were _lies incarnate_ , into the sacred rituals of the dark templar? It was unthinkable to the masters of the void, the leaders of the clans, and had even caused unease within the forward thinking matriarch herself. Many of even the younger mentors had been inclined to agree- a creature without a soul could not even hope to tap into the void, let alone be expected to master it.

Khashilar, however, was old enough to know better and strong enough in his convictions to disagree. He had been a young man when the first rogues had fled aiur under the cover of Adun's sacrifice, had been old enough to have lived a life on aiur before his people's exile, and lived long enough to have returned to his battered home afterwards. The words his people used stung him in a place deep within his ancient mind, a place that had not felt such pain, such prejudice, for a millennium. His words held no weight beyond the age behind them, though, unlike many of his peers. He was no great hero, no leader, no patriarch of a great lineage. He had borne no heirs, taken no family, and dedicated himself only to teaching the ways of the void as he understood them. As such, his rebellion against the misplaced prejudice of his kin took the only form it could. He chose to teach.

For his part, Cipion had taken to his training rather well. Not as well as a Nerazim student would have, and the rate of his progress was worryingly slow, but it was consistent and there was a strong will to learn that carried through every meditation session, every tedious session of study, and every failure. His sentinel body had been modified heavily from the baseline model to accommodate the stresses that training with the void places on a vessel- flesh or otherwise. It resembled the version built to emulate the battlefield prowess of the nerazim, a slender body without the pure bulk most combat shells possessed, and a face that resembled that of a Nerazim much more than the mockery of protoss form that was slapped on to most purifier constructs. It was a true face, custom built for someone who intended to be a true person and it was this that Khashilar felt was most striking about him.

Still, a construct of cybros' best plating with a modified solarite core simply couldn't channel the void as the flesh and blood of a protoss could. This reality combined with his slow march of his progress would likely have been enough for Khashilar to consider terminating his mentorship, had his student been any other protoss. His convictions on the personhood of the purifiers couldn't overrule the fact that his life was close to its end- his brittle bones, hunched spine and progressively loosening grip on his psionics were enough warning to this eventuality. For a protoss, death by age was not a sudden process, but a progressive one that could be felt for decades, a grim reminder that the length of his kindred's lives were not always a blessing, but could often be just as much a curse. Perhaps sword of death hanging above his head would have made the idea of training yet another student too much for him to bare in any other circumstance, perhaps if he hadn't been aware of who that student was- or rather, who that student had been.

* * *

Iaanu sighed deeply at the protoss standing in front of him, completely detached from the impassioned speech being broadcast into his mind. It was always this way, the very moment the two of them had any time alone together he always would break out into these elaborate and wild rants. Brief shimmers of phrases caught his attention for a few moments of time, "freedom" "the rights of an individual", but he cared very little for the ideology that fuelled the passion being thrown at him. He deeply cared for the speaker, of course, he wouldn't be here listening to what was tantamount to an impassioned plea for treason if he didn't, but a Templar as young and full of vigour as he was simply didn't have the desire to lean into such fringe ideas.

Vaguely aware that his senses stopped being assaulted by the primitive mode of communication he was forced to use for these heretical lectures, and slightly more aware that this meant he'd had a question posed to him rather than the rant being cut mercifully short for once, he shot back a weak "I agree". The fallback response never failed as appeasement, he mused with the tiniest hint of contentment. "Never" had exceptions quite often, he supposed, but it was better than actually listening to an aeon's worth of grandstanding. As the long winded reply began, however, Iaanu could do little more than let out another sigh.

" _Excellent! I knew I would get through to you eventually! Many of us met together last moonrise to discuss things of this nature and I must say that it was quite enlightening. You should accompany to the next one, we plan to-_ " Iaanu's eyes shot wide and his mind snapped to attention.

" _Khashilar, you met with them? The rogues? My will is enough to tolerate you discussing their ideas, but- they are criminals! Heretics! Savages- you have said they mutilate themselves! What would become of you if they turned on you? What would become of you if you were found with them?_ " His outburst of fury cut through those of the other templar, who recoiled from the sudden shift in demeaner feeling a brief spark of anger through the khala he still tentatively tuned in to. In turn, Iaanu pulled back, emanating guilt through the mental link the two shared as he regained his composure.

" _I- You are my Khas'lor, we are fated souls, I wish nothing but your safety. I cannot allow you to consort with these deniers of the khala any longer. I understand those of your tribe can be…. free spirited. I have understood this since our fated meeting. Just as you understood the importance of my duties to the conclave and their dictates. I can abide by the words of heresy you whisper to me in our private moments of intimacy, but we are Templar- the Khala is our strength and I will not allow you to be harmed foolishly straying from it's light._ " Iaanu leaned back, content that he had been both more than reasonable and offered an appealing compromise. He allowed his cocktail of emotions to flow between them- love, concern, content, with the smallest tinge of annoyance. The annoyance hadn't been intentional, of course, but he found it was always useful to communicate whenever the two were having a disagreement.

The recoiled protoss standing across from him took several moments to reply, while the khala betrayed no hint of his feelings. If Iaanu had been able to read the emotions his eyes conveyed, however, he may have seen the progression of the turmoil in his other half- Sadness, resolution, conviction. As if one cue, the moment Iaanu considered breaking the silence, Khashilar spoke.

"You… are correct. I have put myself in danger, and worse yet put you and your station at risk, for the words of radicals. For their ideas. I am sorry I have troubled you this way." Khashilar leaned in to the other protoss, touching their crested foreheads together in an affectionate gesture.

Suddenly, through the khala, Iaanu felt a flush of emotion. Joy, love, all the deep feelings the two shared for one another conjoined in a conflicting and wonderful mixture that filled both minds, the ultimate act of intimacy. Iaanu closed his eyes, basking in the gentle waves of shared emotion that swept away his misgivings and malcontent.

And then, with a pained grunt, it was gone.

Instantly, Iaanu was aware something was wrong. His eyes slowly crept open as a single frightening thought took hold of his mind. As his concerned gaze met that of his partner, his suspicions were confirmed and he was scared to the very core of his being. In front of him stood Khashilar, severed nerve cord in one hand and spluttering psi-blade emanating from the other. Shocked, violently appalled, and his mind racing with questions, feelings and words, Iaanu could do nothing but stand and stare. In a strained voice that conveyed no emotion, that could convey no emotion with no khala behind it, Khashilar spoke softly.

" _I am sorry._ "

Before any more words could be exchanged, Khashilar was gone. Gone from the room, gone from the Khala and gone from the only one who would ever hold his trio of hearts.


	3. Cipion - Part 2

The memories of Cipion's old life informed him intimately of the energies wielded by the khalai. How they welled up deep within you, in a place you could feel but never find. How all you needed to do was call it, and the maelstrom of energy poured out of you like a raging river, kept from tearing through your being only by the sheer force will shared with you through the comforting warmth of the khala. The energies of the khalai could be tempered, steered and bent into shape by this will, the energy within any of them twisted into devastating weapons of war, or used to heal flesh and sinew of wounded comrades. It is nothing if not raw potential, and the Khalai great craftsmen who turn it into anything they can dream of.

He hadn't been prepared for how different the Void was.

Once your eyes are opened to it, the Void can be felt everywhere- Always just out of reach, just out of view, like a shadow skulking around the edges of your consciousness. To use the energies of the Void was to invite that creeping presence into every fibre of your being, to pluck it from those dark recesses and draw it as a cloak around your body, letting its power seep deep into your bones (Or, circuitry). In theory, it had seemed easy to simply grab what you desired and pull, but then again, perhaps it would be that easy if the Void didn't pull back.

Those Nerazim masters who worked to channel their energies into Void Rays were known as Void Lenses, a title Cipion now realised must have been coined by the Khalai, as it was too much a misnomer for the Nerazim to have come up with it. The Void could never truly be focused, nor channeled, only corralled and directed. The Void was wild, alive and vengeful- a beast that needed to be brought to submission and constantly held there, lest it consumed you. To touch the void is to feel something cold and impossibly empty, and to use it tugs at the corners of your very soul.

In the end, while the wild and violent nature of the Void was Cipion's greatest challenge to mastering it, it was also his greatest advantage. A machine mind unbound to any single body could make mistakes no protoss born of flesh could withstand, push boundaries that would otherwise need decades of preparation to consider straining and focus with a force of will only a Nerazim master could manifest. Had it not been for the great difficulty it took for technology to access the void, perhaps he could have done much greater things. Instead, progress had been slow, yet steady and in many ways non-linear.

Now, as he stood upon the apex of his training- at the shadowed entrance to the great, nameless gorge Khashilar had chosen to be the location of his sacred Shadow Walk- Cipion could do little else but hope the persistence had been enough.

Khashilar slipped from the darkness to emerge next to his pupil, placing a hand on Cipion's mechanical shoulder. His eyes betraying no hint of emotion, he simply whispered "It is time" and once again melted into shadow of the gorge.

When his training first began, Cipion had often wondered why his master spoke so rarely, and why each word he was given had sounded strained. He had suspected prejudice initially, there were no shortage of protoss who held disdain for their purifier brethren, but he had quickly realized the issue the first time Khashilar slipped, and called him Iaanu. Cipion had ignored it then, and his master had been content to pretend it had never been said. Each subsequent slip was dealt with in the same manner, ignored and struck from the record. As were the forlorn looks of longing, with eyes full of pain, given when his master thought he was distracted with something else. But they had not been forgotten.

Truthfully, Cipion did not consider himself to be the being that he shared his memories with. The Daelaam had no place for protoss like that anymore, even if he had seen fit to hold that identity. Iaanu had lived a full life, a life turned bitter to be sure, but a full one which Cipion didn't see it fit to claim it as his own. The protoss in his memories- the one who grew rotten, who scoured the edges of the protoss empire for Nerazim pirates in vain hope to find someone long lost to him, who gained rank and accolade by spilling the blood of his kin and becoming so famed as have his mind scanned and be inducted into the ranks of the protoss' greatest warriors. Who had died of old age alone and longing over a century ago- that protoss was no more. Now, there was only Cipion.

He understood the poetic nature of it, of course, to be shaped by both sides of such tragedy- but he had chosen a new path for himself and would not be beholden to the ghost who's memories he shared, nor to the protoss hounded by the ghosts of the past.

To that end, Cipion stood at the edge of the gorge's shadows and paused. There was none of Aiur's signature growth here, the lack of light ensured it, just bare rock jutting out of the cragged walls. He stared at it, just for a moment, as the tactical data web supplied him with detailed geological information about the area and ran countless simulations on how to best cross the gorge unharmed. It would be easier than usual, no Nerazim but his master had accepted the invitation to participate in this Shadow Walk- to test him. Still, as aged and withered as Khashilar was, his mastery of the void and intimate knowledge of Cipion's mind, as only his mentor could have, would make him a worthy foe.

Satisfied in his plan of attack, Cipion took a step forward and disappeared into the blackness. His orange eyes glowed dimly even through the veil of shadows, as if two fireflies were locked in an eternal waltz, but dimmer still was the green glow slinking around in the corner of his vision, the telltale sign of a warp scythe zipping just out of range of Cipion's peripheral. Then came the first strike.

Cipion saw it coming a moment too late, his advanced processing no match for the sheer skill of his mentor, and was rewarded a deep shoulder gash for the mistake. The force of the strike knocked him to the ground, sending his mechanical body into a roll to avoid meeting the rock head-on.

The next strike came from the right only seconds later, Cipion leapt back up to his feet from his prone form and this time only received only a shallow cut to the side of his cheek for the quick reaction, managing to get several large bounds away from his master before feeling the distinct ripples in the void that denoted a shadow stride- a blink.

Now closer to the light at the end of the gorge than to where he had started, Cipion's tactical processors whirred into overdrive until he simply disregarded their suggestions and bolted for the end, discarding his cloak of shadows and diverting as much power as he could spare to the leg servos that carried him towards his freedom, his future. He barely had time to raise an arm before Khashilar's blade struck again, and it was in return severed cleanly off. Later, Cipion would think that perhaps doing such damage had stunned his master, perhaps only breifly, because the kick he threw out in retribution should never have landed as it did. Instead, Khashilar was thrown aside and collided with a jutting rock, producing surprised grunt and then the sickening sound of shattering bone. Cipion continued running, unwilling to break the sacred rules of the Shadow Walk. Combat continued until the Shadow Hunters bowed out, the apprentice fell, or the apprentice reached the end of their Shadow Walk.

Cipion managed to get seven paces from the end of the shadows before his master appeared before him, Khashilar's shadow cloak slipping from his body and returning to the darkness that surrounded them. He simply stood there in his tattered robes, hunched with one arm clutching his chest, blocking the path. Blocking Cipion's graduation into a full Shadow Hunter.

"We are done. Strike me down and take what you desire." Hoarse and weak, Khashilar's voice echoed in his pupil's mind.

Instead, Cipion slowly walked to his master and stared into the ancient protoss' eyes, orange and green glows gently mixing in the space between them. Resigned weariness to determined resolve.

Gently, he whispered "You are forgiven".

As his eyes gave a brief flash of surprise, Khashilar collapsed to his knees, holding his free arm to the rugged ground in support. Cipion would later wonder if it was from his injuries, or from emotion. In the end, he decided it didn't matter.

Striding past his mentor's fallen form, Cipion took a step out of the darkness and into the light. There was little difference between this end of the gorge and where he had started, but it felt completely different. Cipion had become a Shadow Hunter, a true Dark Templar.

He had expected Khashilar to speak his proudness, to greet his pupil now as an equal, but such validation never arrived. As he stumbled back into the shadows of the gorge, Cipion was met only with the crumpled, lifeless form of his master. His eyes, still framed by sagging wrinkles, no longer glowed their emerald green but in it's place they looked as Cipion had never before seen them- at peace.

Khashilar would be buried there, in the shadow of that nameless gorge, his soul returned to the void and flesh returned to Aiur. His passing was mourned by few, only the pupils he raised, and his resting place received only a small silver plaque to signify his presence there. Cipion would never return there after his shadow walk, and his thoughts would wander back to it only rarely, and briefly. He felt no guilt, he had done nothing wrong according to Daelaam customs, but a small part of him, deep within his memories caused a pang of sadness whenever the thought of his master wormed into his mind.

For his part, Cipion would think little of his master. Khashilar was the past, and Cipion was the future. He was not Iaanu, nor Khashilar, although they had shaped him. There was nothing to be gained through being weighed down by the ghosts of history, his memories and his master had taught him this above all else. He was Cipion, and he would be the future.


End file.
